by David Wood
“For what?” Maddock couldn’t stifle a laugh. “Detective, I’m sorry for how this sounds, but those guys got what was coming to them and they didn’t leave a scratch on any of us. As far as any of us are concerned, it was over as soon as the fight ended.”
“Fine. Let’s suppose I believe you.” Williams opened a file folder and made a show of inspecting the contents. “Where were you yesterday between the hours of two and eleven p.m.?”
That was an unexpected question, but Maddock had an easy answer.
“At the hospital. One of my crew was injured on the job. We stayed with him until well after midnight.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
“My entire crew and maybe some of the hospital staff. There’s a nurse there with frizzy gray hair and crazy eyes who wouldn’t stop hitting on me. I’m sure she, at least, remembers.”
Williams actually cracked a smile.
“I know her. Sorry to break it to you, but you’re not her first.” He took a deep breath and let it all out in a rush. “You realize I can check hospital security video to confirm your story?”
“I’m counting on it,” Maddock said. “I’m guessing something bad happened to Rodney.”
“You could say that.” Williams closed his folder. “Give me a few minutes.” He pushed himself up from his seat and lumbered to the door. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“No thanks.” Maddock hoped the abrupt ending to the interrogation, if it could be called that, and William’s sudden bout of courtesy were good signs.
Williams returned twenty minutes later. He opened the door and leaned inside. “How long do you plan on being in town, Mister Maddock?”
“Until the job’s finished. I don’t know how long that will be.”
“All right. You’re free to go.” Williams didn’t seem angry or upset. Whatever follow-up he’d done seemed to have persuaded him that Maddock was not responsible for whatever had happened to Rodney.
“I’ll need a lift back to the island. Are the deputies still here?”
Williams’ expression darkened for a moment. “It would be better if I drove you. The deputies are...” He shrugged.
“Out for my blood?”
“Maybe not your blood, but they want a pound of flesh from somebody, and you two were the prime suspects.”
Maddock took note of the past tense and nodded.
Williams guided Maddock and Bones out of the station. As they exited through the front doors, they heard shouting and turned around. Sheriff Meade, apoplectic, was struggling to escape the clutching arms of the three deputies who held him back.
“You killed my son!” he cried.
“My partner’s going to talk to him,” Williams said, ushering Maddock and Bones out the door.
“A horse tranquilizer might help,” Bones said.
Williams smirked and shook his head.
“So, Rodney’s dead.” Bones made it a statement, not a question.
“Very.” Williams’ expression grew grave. “Until we find the killer, I suggest you two steer clear of the sheriff. He’s a powerful man and he can be a dangerous enemy.”
“That’s fine,” Maddock said. “So can we.”
Williams stopped and looked at them each in turn. “I believe you.”
Chapter 9
“They have one, Ma’am.” Jacob’s expression was studiously blank. He never said so, but he disapproved of this exercise.
“Very well. I’ll be down there shortly.”
Her phone rang as Jacob was closing the door. It was Locke. “Yes?”
“We found the chest and it was empty.”
Though Locke had delivered the news exactly as she preferred- swiftly and succinctly, like a clean cut, she still felt a momentary thrill followed by a sagging disappointment. She’d been so certain.
“So it was another false trail.” She hated the hollow sound of her voice.
“You misunderstand me. The secret compartment was there, but someone must have gotten to it first. I’ve secured the chest so our people can examine it, though I doubt they’ll find anything. I took a few other items of no great value and ransacked an office as well. No need to call attention to the chest.”
“Very good.” Her head spun and her heart raced. So Kidd’s story was true. She’d never doubted it, but this was the closest thing to definitive proof they’d found.
“I know it isn’t the news you hoped for, but at least we have a path to follow.”
“Who took it?” An overwhelming rage filled her, and she wanted nothing more in the world than to have the responsible party right there in front of her, where she could put her hands around his neck and choke the answer out of him.
“I don’t know yet.” How could Locke remain so calm? “But the chest was donated by a man called Hunter Maddock. He told the museum he believed it belonged to Blackbeard.”
“A cover story,” Morgan spat.
“Possibly. Or, he truly did not know what he had, and was ignorant of the compartment.”
“In which case, whatever was hidden inside could have been removed by someone at the museum.” The wheels of Morgan’s mind were turning at a rapid clip.
“Or it was removed before the chest came into Maddock’s possession.” Locke completed her thought, as he often did.
“Pursue all angles.” Morgan’s flare of anger was settling into a cold fury. “Investigate the museum. Acquire it if you must. Our New York branch could stand to expand its reach.”
“Yes, Ma’am. The budget for this acquisition?”
“At your discretion.” She would not have given anyone other than Locke such a free rein. “Find this Hunter Maddock and wring the truth out of him. I don’t care how you do it. If he doesn’t have the clue, find out from whom he obtained the chest.”
“He is deceased, with only one living relative. A son, a military type and a bit of an odd bird.”
“How so?”
“He is a treasure hunter of sorts and his name is associated with some sensational rumors. It also seems that someone at a high level of the American government has worked very hard to hide information about him, though I can find no evidence that he has worked in any official capacity since he left their military. I know he is well-trained and keeps company with similar men. He would be difficult to kill or capture.” He paused. Two eternal seconds of silence dragged past.
“What is it?” Morgan snapped. Locke knew better than to waste time.
“I can’t be certain, but it appears he is on Herrschaft’s list.”
That was a surprise. What were the odds that an American civilian would have run afoul of the German sect of the Dominion? Morgan frowned, considering this new detail.
“In that case, perhaps an arrangement can be reached,” she mused. “The enemy of my enemy, as they say.”
“I will consider all angles.”
“Is there anything else?”
“There is yet another treasure hunting expedition underway on Oak Island. Probably the same sort of misguided buffoons as always. Should we investigate?”
“Yes. As you say, it is not likely to amount to anything, but if it does, take control in any way you see fit.” Morgan ended the call, pocketed her phone, and walked to the window.
Modron was her personal retreat. Built in the style of a medieval castle, it stood atop a lonely tor in Bodmin Moor. It was well off the beaten path, surrounded by a dense wood planted two centuries ago by her many-greats grandmother and cultivated by later generations, providing her the solitude she craved and the privacy she required.
She looked down onto the grounds, where a tidy formal garden gave way to acres of forest. The vast grounds were protected by a variety of security measures designed to keep intruders out... and other things in.
She espied movement among the trees, a brief glimpse of gold and green, and then it was gone. She smiled at the sight. She would have enjoyed a walk in the forest right now, but she should not keep Jacob waiting. The exercise
would be a satisfying release after Locke’s call.
From her private study, she descended a narrow, winding stone staircase. There was no light here, and each step carried her deeper into the darkness, a fitting twin for her mood.
The stairway emptied into a square room. To her left, a heavy oaken door barred the way. Suits of armor stood sentinel in each corner and, to her right, arched windows flanked a floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting a scene from the Battle of Ager Sanguinis. She glided behind the tapestry and her hand went automatically to the trigger stone.
The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a jarringly bright room. Built in an octagonal shape, it was thoroughly modern, from the soft, blue carpet, to the fluorescent lights, to the high-definition television set high on one wall. In contrast, a medieval-looking rack of weapons lined the wall to her left: swords, long knives, a mace, a morning star, and staffs of varying lengths and thicknesses.
Jacob stood watch over a handcuffed man in his late twenties, who scowled at her when she entered. Morgan looked him up and down. He was tall and solidly built, and the scarring on his knuckles indicated he’d done his share of fighting. Dark stubble dusted his shaved head and cheeks. He wore sagging blue jeans, jack boots, and a West Ham United football jersey.
“So who is she, then?” he growled. “Why’d you bring me here?”
“Why are you here?” Morgan echoed. “That is an excellent question, for which I shall give you an honest answer.” She accepted a black leather portfolio from Jacob, opened it, and flipped through the contents.
“Richard MacKenzie, originally from Liverpool, late of Falmouth,” she read. “You came to our attention because you beat your girlfriend two weeks ago.”
“Them charges didn’t stick, now, did they?” He grinned, his crooked, beige teeth gleaming like jagged fangs in the artificial light. “If you’re one of them bizzies you can just bugger off and let me go on my way.”
“You set a car on fire during the riots,” she continued, “and you have an impressive list of criminal offenses.”
“That’s not all that’s impressive about me, blondie.” He moved his hips suggestively.
“I do not see here that you have a job, or have ever held one.” She cocked her head and waited for a reply.
“See now, I’ve worked here and there.” His smug grin flickered. “It’s hard, you know. Not many jobs to be had.”
“You have never held a job for which you earned a salary or paid income taxes.”
“So what if I haven’t? That’s not a crime now, is it?”
“You are a parasite, Mister MacKenzie. Britain has provided you with support for your entire life, yet you repay her by preying on good and decent people.”
“Most of them wasn’t decent, Miss. No more than me, anyhow.” His grin was back.
“Give me one reason I should let you leave here alive, Mister MacKenzie.”
His face turned beet red and he trembled, not with fear, but rage. “Bollocks. You ain’t going to do nothing to me.” The man was either too arrogant or too lacking in imagination to understand he was in her power.
“Let us try again. If you ceased to exist at this very moment, give me one example of how Britain would be the worse for it.”
“Piss off!” If his hands had not been cuffed, Morgan was sure he would have attacked her right then and there. Good!
“Nothing, then? Because I can think of several ways in which your death would improve our country immensely.” She sniffed. “Not the least of which would be the absence of your foul stench.”
“Let me go or I’ll...” He glanced down at his handcuffs.
“What will you do? You’ll hit me, like you did your girlfriend?” She nodded to Jacob who produced a key and removed MacKenzie’s cuffs. “That is exactly what I want.”
“What?” The confusion in his eyes was comical.
“I want to fight you, Mister MacKenzie. You may use any of the weapons you see here.” She nodded to the rack. “I shall be unarmed. If you fight me and win, Jacob will drive you home and give you one hundred pounds for your trouble. Should you lose, you may still walk out of here.”
“What if I don’t want to?” He looked all around the room, searching for a way out. “There’s some kind of trick here. Let me go.”
“If you do not fight me, Jacob will shoot you and bury you in the moor.”
“You’re out of your mind.” He took two steps toward her and froze, recognition dawning in his eyes. “I’ve seen you before. You’ve been on television and whatnot. Just wait until I tell my story. Somebody’ll pay me nicely for it.”
Jacob glanced at her and she smiled.
“Fight me, and you will be free to go and tell your story to anyone you like.” In one swift movement she closed the gap between them and slapped him across the face. The loud crack and sharp sting felt good. “Hit me.” She struck him again, this time with a closed fist.
Richard reeled backward, pressing a hand to his split lip. He raised his bloody hand, eyes filled with disbelief.
“You crazy bitch!”
He swung a wild right cross that Morgan easily ducked. She sidestepped and drove a fist into his side where his ribs ended. He grunted in pain but managed another swing, which she ducked. This time she drove a roundhouse kick to the inside of his knee then followed with a right cross to his nose. Her fist struck home with a satisfying crunch.
Richard flailed blindly, trying to grab hold of her, but she was too fast for him. Another kick to the knee and he stumbled to the floor.
“You fight like a Frenchman,” she hissed. In an actual life and death situation she would have finished him, but this was something else entirely.
Richard found renewed strength and, with a roar, leapt at her. He almost managed to grab hold of her, but she sprang to the side and he crashed into the wall. Now, mad with rage, he went for the weapons. He grabbed a longsword and charged.
Morgan easily eluded his clumsy strokes and feeble thrusts. It was not long before he began to tire- he struggled to keep the sword aloft, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Summoning the last of his strength, he raised the sword and rushed in for a vicious downstroke. Morgan dodged and drove a roundhouse kick into his unprotected middle. The breath left him in a rush, and he dropped to one knee. Knowing he would offer no further meaningful resistance, she delivered an axe kick to the back of his skull.
It took Richard ten minutes to recover whatever wits he had at his disposal. Jacob wiped the blood from his face, congratulated him on a “bloody good fight” and offered him a glass of water. He sipped it, staring daggers at Morgan.
“I’ll show you out if you’re ready,” Jacob said.
“Where’s my hundred pounds?” Richard snapped.
“You didn’t win.” Morgan said. “But you do get to leave here alive.”
Richard didn’t bother to argue. He lurched to his feet and followed Jacob out.
Jacob returned a few minutes later. “I assume you want to watch.” His voice was as dull as the look in his eyes.
“Of course,” Morgan said. Her eyes turned to the television on the wall. Jacob turned it on, revealing a wide-angle shot of the formal garden. Jacob zoomed in on Richard, who was limping toward the wood. “Your disapproval saddens me, Jacob.” Morgan kept her eyes on the screen as she spoke.
“I don’t mind the fighting,” he said. “These blokes all deserve an ass whipping, and you’re more than fair about it. But this...” He gestured at the screen. “I just don’t know.”
“We are culling the flock. Can you honestly say our nation would be better off with him and the others alive?”
Jacob shook his head.
“Besides, the children need to hunt. It is their nature.” She smiled as the feed switched over to a camera in the wood. Richard was already jumping at every sound. He sensed danger.
“I would respectfully argue it is their training, not their nature, Ma’am.”
“Centuries of breeding and, yes,
training have made them what they are today. Perhaps it was not in the nature of their ancestors, but it is their nature. It amounts to the same thing.”
“True,” Jacob said. “Let me know when you wish for me to press the button.”
They lapsed into a tense silence as they watched Richard move into the depths of the wood. Things were about to get very interesting.
A branch rustled somewhere behind him. Richard spun around, sending a new burst of pain shooting up his injured leg. He hadn’t taken a licking like that since school. The bitch must be some kind of soldier or spy or something. He’d be well shut of her and this damn forest.
He didn’t like it out here. He couldn’t properly say he knew anything about the outdoors, he was a city lad after all, but this place was all wrong. It felt unnatural. The trees weren’t planted in rows or anything, but it had an orderly feel to it, as if everything were laid out according to a plan. And there were no bird sounds, only the occasional rustle of something heavy moving through the treetops or scuffling along the ground.
He quickened his pace, not entirely certain where he was headed. The black fellow had told him to keep going straight ahead and he would find a gate that opened onto a path leading into town. Richard had been too out of sorts to ask the name of the town or how, exactly, he was to get back home, but he didn’t much care. He just wanted away from this place. And when he got home, he’d call one of those reporters who made their living exposing public figures, march right back to this place, and show the world what a nutter the woman was. He’d make her sorry she’d crossed him.
This time, the sound came from his left, and he saw a flash of movement. So there was something out there. Now he knew for certain he wasn’t imagining things, but he’d have preferred his own paranoia to what he had just seen. It wasn’t much- only a glimpse of a mottled hide of dark green and gold or orange, he couldn’t be sure, covered in a lattice-work pattern of raised ridges. What the bloody hell was it?
He veered off to his right and quickened his pace, hoping he would not lose his way. There were more sounds now, coming from every direction, and moving closer. He scanned the ground for a stick, a rock, anything he could use as a weapon, but the forest floor was clean; another thing that lent to its unnatural feel.
